


Hidden Assets

by glinda4thegood



Series: Victoria Winslow/Ivan Simanov Series [1]
Category: RED (2010)
Genre: F/M, KGB, MI6, Romance, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-24
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She worked for MI6, he was KGB. They met for the first time in Paris. They loved for the first time in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Assets

**PARIS, SPRING 1970**

Victoria crouched in the dark and watched a man through the scope on her 7.62 mm L42 Lee-Enfield sniper rifle.

A fine rain had begun just after sunset in Paris. Four hours later the air was fresh, cool, and mostly clear, although an occasional scatter of precipitation still beat tattoo on the street-level metal awning several stories below her hotel window. Viewed from a darkened perch, outside ambient light was muted, impressionistic. Passing car lamps sparked lambent prismatic streamers off water-pearled windows. 

It was a Cortes painting come to life. _Rue de la Paix in the Rain._

The building across the street housed older apartments, well-kept and solid, with exquisite crown mouldings along the walls. Victoria couldn't resist scrutinizing the decor during interminable minutes when there was no observable human activity. She had a hobby interest in architecture and interior design. The suite she occupied in the facing hotel was also older, also well-kept and solid, with that elusive quality of old world luxury, where gilding is only slightly scuffed away by polish and time.

Victoria's window vantage was directly opposite a small balcony patio in the man's apartment living room. She had shadowed him for three days, waiting for a contact that London had predicted would occur.

And that contact would reveal her target.

Victoria eased back from the rifle. She stretched her arms, then her legs. 

"Biochemist," Sir Malcolm had said, during her briefing at London HQ. Sir Malcolm was a burly old soldier with grey mustaches, issuing commands from a desk surrounded by bookcases and heavily framed pictures of sailboats. 

"Name of Braun, Herman Braun. Worked for the Ruskies for the last ten years in R&D. Scarpered out of Moscow with intel he's looking to sell in exchange for a permanent change of address to a semi-tropical climate. Ruskies will be looking to get him back. It isn't in our best interest to have that happen, nor is it in our best interest to let him go to work elsewhere. Do you understand, Miss Winslow?" Sir Malcolm stared over steepled fingers with the obvious, patronizing evaluation that Victoria's early training and field exercises had prepared her to expect from Upper Management.

"I do, Sir Malcom." Victoria nodded demurely, then waited for him to decide his Pause of Import had helped her understand she was being asked to kill someone.

"Well, then. Mission objective is a simple retirement. Needn't be anything subtle. Afterwards, others will deal with any loose ends." He frowned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "We're a bit short-handed at the moment. I'm given to understand you haven't yet been in the field alone, but Chief of Staff thinks you've the necessary qualifications. If the target remains inaccessible, your C.V. won't suffer. If you are able to complete the mission, it will be a significant addition to your C.V."

A movement across the street brought Victoria's focus fully back to the present moment, and her scope. The long windows between apartment and balcony cracked, then opened wide. Her shadow stood framed against light from the room behind him.

His passport identified him as Juan Cruz, citizen of Ecuador. During the last three days, she had learned that Senior Cruz spoke Spanish, Portuguese, French and English extremely well, with an accent that was easiest to recognize when he spoke English. Perhaps because he wasn't trying to hide it, Victoria thought with inappropriate amusement. Although he certainly looked the part of some generic South American envoy, her shadow was Russian. 

Cruz wasn't a large man. Compact and slim, with heavy, working muscles on his arms and chest, he stood only an inch or two taller than Victoria. He wore his dark hair slicked back. Dark eyebrows framed a pair of startlingly blue eyes. Far from conventionally handsome, a first quick glance at his face left an impression of rough, unfinished sculpture. A second look revealed good cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a distinctive cleft in his chin just below the full lower lip of a mouth that smiled and laughed easily and often.

It was the face of a young Russian worker, Victoria told herself. The face of old school KGB.

Cruz removed his suit jacket and pulled off his tie. He undid the first few buttons on his shirt, revealing fine, dark hair on his chest. It looked as if he meant to remain inside for the rest of the evening. It looked as if he might be waiting for someone.

Victoria checked her watch: ten past midnight. During that brief glance Cruz disappeared, moving between living room and bedroom. He returned a moment later, stripping the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes. She watched him light a cigarette, then stand in the center of the open window, smoking, looking down at the street.

_Head. Heart. Stomach._

She could have had her choice of shots. Cruz stood at ease, relaxed and oblivious to surveillance or danger: feet planted slightly apart, head thrown back to blow smoke into the fresh, damp air, one hand in the pocket of his slightly tight black dress pants. The posture would be pulling the material snug across his derriere, emphasizing solid musculature of arse and thighs.

Victoria regretted the only view she had was frontal. Three days of shadowing Cruz, of assessing his casual physical confidence, had given her an appreciation for his rear view. In her work it was inevitable an operative would become a connoisseur of physique, but even if she hadn't been working, this man would have pinged her radar.

_Competent. Dangerous. Masculine._

Her radar was pinging now. This probable KGB agent had never been without at least two guns and a knife on his forays around Paris. Tonight the guns were gone, and possibly the knife as well. And he was standing outlined by light like a target.

Cruz stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, then looked toward the apartment's foyer. He crossed quickly to the door and admitted a visitor.

 _Finally._ Herman Braun had come alone, and armed. Victoria evaluated her target through the scope. He looked slightly older than his file photo, tired and wary. Not unfamiliar with the use of a gun, she thought, and he kept a cautious distance away from Cruz. Something told her he would be no real match for Cruz if the conversation deteriorated.

_You are Cruz? You have my money? You have an airplane ticket for me?_

Victoria read Braun's lips and translated automatically. She wished Cruz would present his profile, but her desire to view his backside had been granted. He nodded, and said something to Braun. Braun's hand relaxed slightly on the gun.

Cruz left the living room. Victoria's finger tightened on the trigger as Braun frowned, then walked toward the open window.

Her first shot was exactly in the center of his forehead, the second precisely above his heart.

Her job was done.

Cruz returned from the bedroom. He stepped around the body, went without haste to a telephone. Victoria could see his profile as he dialed, then she took her eye away from the scope and began to disassemble and store her gear.

The phone on her night table rang.

Victoria scooted away from the window, falling onto her side next to the bed. She lay, frozen, as the ringing continued. Pushing herself along the floor, she reached upward, found the base of the phone and pulled it down next to her.

"Hello?"

"You will find a key in your night stand, to a different room in your hotel." Cruz' voice was warm and calm, and made no effort to hide his Russian accent. "It would be a pleasure to meet you there, and share a glass of vodka. Remove that wig before you go up. It does not suit your coloring."

Victoria replaced the phone. When she eased her eyes above the windowsill, she didn't need a scope to see Cruz was methodically gathering his few belongings, and wiping surfaces. She returned to the nightstand on her hands and knees. The key she found in the drawer had a cardboard tag that read "7-5". 

_When had it been placed in her room?_ Victoria could easily imagine the caustic derision Sir Malcolm might infuse into the question. She stowed the rifle case inside her specially designed garment bag, then stood in front of the vanity mirror in the bathroom.

 _It does not suit your coloring._

At some time during surveillance, Cruz had gotten a good look at her. It might be interesting to ask him . . . Victoria removed the dark brown wig and quickly pulled out the bobby pins underneath. Kinked by confinement and pins, her hair resisted the brush. She gave up and tucked the waves behind her ears.

Standard procedure dictated that she leave the hotel immediately, use her exit strategy. Her mission would be successful, and she would never know why Cruz had handed Braun to her. Victoria's training to date had suggested this was the type of detail that might be better analyzed by someone above her pay grade. And yet she couldn't help wondering if an appreciation of Cruz' derriere had somehow disturbed her carefully constructed work patterns, and exposed her to discovery.

It would be a matter of professional courtesy, and the chance to expand knowledge about herself and the enemy, Victoria reasoned in the lift as she pressed the button for the seventh floor. Nothing more. And no one at HQ need be bothered to find answers to questions that Victoria could find for herself.

Room 7-5 was very similar to the room below. A small table had been placed in front of drape-covered windows, artistically arranged with fresh flowers, ice bucket with bottle, sparkling glasses, and a silver caviar server. Victoria hung up her garment bag in the closet. She went to the bed and slipped her Walther down between mattress and headboard.

Closer inspection of the table revealed the caviar was golden, and accompanied by a plate of toast points. Victoria cracked the seal on the vodka, pouring a finger of liquid into each of the ice cold glasses. She placed herself behind the table as the room door opened.

Cruz entered, slid and locked down the interior bolts, then opened the closet and hung a garment bag next to hers. His eyes took in her hair, and the waiting vodka. "Good shooting," he said, removing his suit coat. The tie had not been replaced. "Clean."

Victoria nodded, quelling a sense of self-satisfaction. The shots had been unchallenging, but exact. "Did I do your job for you?"

He shrugged. "Allow me to introduce myself. Ivan Simanov."

"My name is Margaret." The name on her passport slipped without hesitation from Victoria's lips. "Margaret Brown."

The corner of Ivan's mouth twitched into half a grin. "Really? It is a pleasure." He walked to the table, took one of the glasses and raised it toward her. " _Na sdarovie._ "

"Cheers." Victoria held the other glass briefly in salute, then tilted the liquid into her mouth. It burned its way to her stomach like a blast of polar air. "You aren't worried I put something into the vodka?"

"Life is risk." Ivan pulled the two armchairs close to the table. "Sit. Eat. Is very good caviar, and you haven't eaten since yesterday, early afternoon. You must be hungry."

"How could you possibly know that? I was following you, you weren't following me." She piled caviar on a piece of toast. The smooth, savory tang of the caviar took a moment of silent appreciation. When she opened her eyes, Ivan had refilled their glasses. "Thank you. It's delicious."

It was dangerously delicious, unsettlingly extravagant, the food, the company. Victoria drank vodka, ate caviar, and watched Ivan's quick, precise motions as he ate and drank twice as much as she did with obvious enjoyment. His intensely blue eyes watched her in return. At this closer proximity Victoria found herself conscious of a sense of presence, searching intelligence, and good humor in those blue eyes.

"So. When did you make me? And," she waved around the room, "when did you register here?"

Ivan patted a napkin against his lips. "It was your ass."

"My arse?" Victoria looked at the level of vodka in the bottle.

"The first day. You were wearing fitted skirt," Ivan made a motion with his hands, "A-line, I think the ladies say. You were sitting several tables down at that street cafe. You bent to catch a piece of flying paper."

Victoria remembered, with a small blush. It had been a fluke. The wind had blown a newspaper against her legs.

"Later that evening, a woman with darker hair, wearing pair of trousers any Russian woman would be proud to own -- please, don't ever wear them again -- crossed the street as I exited from tobacco shop." Ivan grinned and winked. "I knew that ass. Your waist is small, your hips modestly curved, but your thighs are a trifle plump, and your ass . . ." he waved his hand as if fanning himself.

"My thighs are not plump." Victoria considered saying something about his arse, and decided she was already in enough trouble.

"I can only imagine they are perfect. I did not say fat, I said a trifle plump, and sleekly round." Ivan pushed his chair back and stood. "Will you come to bed with me?"

Would she have sex with a stranger, an enemy agent? Fortuitously, Victoria had asked herself this very question in the lift on the way up. She emptied the last swallow of vodka from her glass. "Yes."

She got her clothes off first, and sat on the side of the bed near her Walther. Ivan transferred the remaining vodka to the night stand, then removed his clothing with admirable speed and economy of motion. He only had one gun on his person, in an ankle holster. Victoria watched as his body was revealed. He was well-proportioned, built for hard work, the promise of stamina and endurance in his sturdy muscles.

"I like the way you look," she said. "I found your arse distracting, as well."

Ivan pulled her up off the bed, into his arms. He touched his lips against her eyes, her cheek, her jaw, the hollow of her throat. "I find you lovely, an unexpected treasure in a poor world."

Something melted between her legs, and in an odd spot near the center of her chest. Victoria pulled his face up from her breasts, just in case his mouth was responsible for the sensation. "We're not lovers. This is just sex."

"My English is good, but some things do not translate so well . . ."

The kiss took her by surprise. Victoria had participated in uncomplicated sex, and this wasn't the way people engaged in that activity kissed. Ivan held her bottom lip between his teeth, then found her tongue and slid deeper into her mouth. One hand cupped the back of her head gently, the other stroked a path along her lower back.

As good as the kiss was, it did not trump the body rush of heat Victoria experienced as Ivan's hand settled under the curve of her arse. A half-step closer brought their hips into alignment, brought a knot of hard male genitals against her abdomen. Without hesitation she draped her arms around his neck and pressed against that hardness. 

Ivan put his arm under her legs, lifted and swung her onto the bed. "I knew you were blonde. You couldn't hide your skin." He climbed onto the bed near her feet, pushed her knees apart and knelt between her legs. "You are an English rose." He bent and rubbed his cheek against her hair. "Soft as ermine, soft as the tiny angora bunnies my babushka kept in her flat."

Ivan's breath left a field of gooseflesh under the downy hair he examined with such appreciation. Victoria looked down at his face, nestled in the juncture of her thighs. In her Lexicon of Experience, the view inscribed a virgin entry for the phrase _mind-numbingly erotic_. She cleared her throat. "Not to be critical, but English rose is a bit over-used. _Bunny_ is silly, but has the virtue of being original."

"Nonsense. I am Russian. We are poets, and poetry does not have to be original, just come from the heart." Ivan parted the hair between her legs with his fingers. "Definitely a rose. A fully opened _La Reine Victoria._ "

Other men had tried to do this for Victoria, with less success. She closed her eyes and felt a delicious ache of pleasure pulse where he moved his mouth. Other men seemed to think tongues were tiny penises, should jab and probe and thrust with rigid repetition. Ivan used his tongue and mouth in a way agile tongues and mouths were best suited to be used. It felt like he was French kissing her clitoris, a gentle motion of soft, insistent pressure and teasing suction. His tongue was warm and wet, and very, very thorough.

When he stroked his fingers over the skin at the tops of her thighs, Victoria grabbed handfuls of sheet and arched into his mouth. A field of twinkling lights seemed to burst inside the darkness between her closed eyelids as the pressure in her belly released with a sensation that left her limp and wordless.

"How beautiful you are, _zaychik moy._ "

He was watching her. It made Victoria feel quite cross, after the orgasm ebbed and enough blood returned to her brain to make thinking possible. It made her crosser still when Ivan bent his head back to her crotch.

"Not to seem unappreciative, but that bit's getting a little sensitive. Wouldn't you like to do something more personally satisfying?" Victoria tried to sit up, to grab his shoulders and pull him onto her body. A maddening sense of emptiness between her legs, of a need for weight, pressure and direct contact with his skin, demanded more traditional intercourse.

Ivan resisted. "At this moment, I can think of nothing more satisfying than to see you come again. I can wait for my pleasure."

Victoria fell back against the pillows. The day was full of personal firsts: First solo mission. First solo retirement. First sexual liaison with an enemy agent. First time she felt strongly enough to verbally communicate her own desires to a sexual partner. And Ivan was ignoring that ground breaking communication.

Professional instincts took over. Victoria slipped her hand between mattress and headboard and found her Walther.

"Ivan." She reached down and placed the barrel carefully against his forehead. "You have two choices. Put your cock between my legs, or stay down there, and I will blow your brains all over these lovely sheets."

His hand came up, slowly. He pushed the gun to one side and smiled at her, a crooked smile that crinkled his eyes into a heavy-lidded expression that sent a spasm of anticipation through her stomach muscles. 

"If you insist. You want me on top of you?"

Victoria was tempted to pull the trigger next to his ear, but thought better of it. She pushed the Walther under her pillow. "Yes."

Ivan laughed against her stomach. His mouth moved upward, dipping into her navel, pausing on one breast. Victoria tore herself away from the whirlpool of sensation radiating from her nipples and reached for his cock. He made a gratifying sound as her fingers closed around the thick, hard piece of flesh.

"Condom?" Ivan reached toward the bedside stand.

"Optional. I am healthy, and protected from pregnancy," Victoria said, squeezing gently. "Do you have any potential health issues I should know about?"

His eyes were wide and unfocused. "Mmm. No. No health issues."

Victoria guided him between her legs, tilting her pelvis and rising away from the mattress to meet his body. She shivered, watching his mouth go slack as he shifted his weight and pushed into her. It was like the children's story of _The Three Bears_ , Victoria thought, flexing her internal muscles around his cock, aware in a way she had never been before of the shape, size and weight of a man's body inside hers. Other lovers had been longer, shorter, perhaps even larger. But she'd never held a man between her legs that felt just right.

That felt . . .

When her breath slowed, and the stars thinned, Victoria opened her eyes and found Ivan watching her. His previous amusement was gone, replaced by narrow-eyed hunger. He took her mouth in a kiss that emptied the little air she had just taken back into her lungs, and began to thrust against her.

Victoria licked the trace of vodka and caviar from her lips and wrapped her legs around his back. "More like it," she said. "Oh god."

He groaned and muttered in Russian against her neck. The small change of angle made it seem as if he was hitting somewhere near her navel with every rhythmic, slow thrust. Dampness slicked her thighs. Victoria wondered, in the same part of her brain that was capable of philosophizing about nursery tales, whether she'd ever been this wet in her life, this full in her life. She closed her hands over the solid muscles of his back under his shoulder bones, met each thrust with a moan, and felt an ouroboros of sensation between her nipples and abdomen turn and return along its electric path until the twisting, tightening knot was impossible to hold intact.

"Now?" Sweat beaded on his skin, rolled off his back onto her hands.

Victoria whimpered and dug her fingers into his back. The tension in her legs dissolved as he drove into her. It was an imperfect, if satisfying, trifecta. Her head banged against the backboard, Ivan stiffened and shuddered, and her third orgasm of the day hit with such intensity she could only gasp as his body collapsed onto hers.

It took several minutes to compose a useful sentence.

"I don't like to complain, but you're a bit heavy, and I seem to be laying in a swamp," she said. He was still inside her, and the wet heat between them was turning to merely cool wetness.

"Does it bother you so much?" Ivan wrapped his arms around her, rolled, and ended near the edge of the bed, holding her on top of him. "I don't believe I had the chance to say, but the inside of you is as enchanting as the outside."

Victoria looked down into his face, pushed a wayward strand of hair off his forehead. He was still firmly encased between her legs. "It doesn't bother me if you're the one laying on the wet spot. Didn't you forget something?"

Ivan laughed. The motion created aftershocks. He extended one hand to the bedside table and snagged the vodka. "Thirsty work," he said.

She took the bottle when he was done, drank a mouthful, then lay her head on his chest. "It's past time for me to go."

He didn't answer. His fingers moved over her skin, tracing curves. "Yes," he said, finally. "I also have responsibilities.

Victoria heard the sound of liquid move in the bottle. "You didn't tell me when you registered for this room."

"The same night I knew you were following me. There is fire escape outside the apartment's bathroom window," Ivan said, apologetically. "I thought I knew what you were after. I hoped we would have a chance to meet."

"Your mission was to kill Braun?"

"Yes. And thank you. If I am associated with that apartment, even the Surete will conclude I couldn't have killed him from across the street. I have recently been in Paris too often."

"You're welcome." Victoria closed her eyes, feeling his heart beat against her cheek. She had followed him for three days, and everything she knew about him was from a false persona. He probably took his coffee black, probably smoked unfiltered cigarettes. Of all possible night time entertainments Paris had to offer, he had chosen blues and German beer. The caviar and vodka were real pleasures, though.

"My name is Victoria."

"I know."

He would, of course. She needed to shower before she left, remove sweat and accumulated stickiness. Victoria moved her pelvis experimentally, then raised her head and found him still watching her.

"Ivan?"

"Yes?"

"Are you hard again?"

He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but the second time always takes longer than the first. If you would like to begin on top, we can finish in the shower. That will save a bit of time."

Victoria touched her mouth against his lips and sat up, one knee coming down on each side of his hips. "I think if you wished to kill me, the only weapon you would need is currently holstered between my legs."

Ivan laughed so hard she thought he would pop from her body like a cork. When the rumbling laughter died away, he wiped tears from his eyes, then rubbed his wet fingers across her breasts. "My contact said you would have hidden assets. I never imagined a woman who, if she wished to kill me, would only have to stop moving her plump thighs and glorious ass."

"My thighs are not --"

Ivan pulled her head down and stopped her words with his mouth. " _Zaychik moy._ You are perfect."

It did take longer, and finished in the shower.

They dressed in exhausted, companionable silence. The clock said it was 4:30 a.m.

"I will stay, and check out in a couple of hours." Ivan pressed his lips to her palm, then held her fingers curled against his cheek. Thorough shampooing had lightened his still dark hair, revealing a brick red undertone that made his eyes seem an even deeper blue. "I will see you again, Victoria."

"I don't think so." Based solely on how much she wanted to see him again, it was a remarkably bad idea to even fantasize about. "Au revoir, Ivan."

" _Do svidaniya_ , Victoria. Do not forget your gun."

She retrieved the Walther from under the pillow, and went out into the damp Paris morning alone.


End file.
